Spaced
by Morelenmir
Summary: Lestrade's having an unexpected adventure. The Ponds and the Doctor just don't seem capable of allowing him to enjoy his peaceful retirement. Set after "Time Has Come Today".


I complained I wasn't good at writing sci-fi and my evil twinpromptly challenged me to write 200 words of Lestrade in space, to follow the events of "Time Has Come Today". Much like a ravenous marshmallow man, this grew quickly beyond a 200 wordcount.

* * *

"Doctor? Doctor!"

The aggravation in the panting voice finally clicked. Glancing over his right shoulder, he had to look farther back than he'd expected. "Now Greg, you really need to keep up," he called. "Even Rory has become a proficient jogger." There was a funny sort of sputtering noise from his left. The Doctor blithely ignored it.

"This is more of a mad dash and, for the record, I'm _retired_."

Greg sounded rather cross. The Doctor couldn't see why; a carnivorous clothing store was wonderful. Animated clothing racks chasing them was equally exciting, in theory, yet he was somewhat relieved to have apparently lost them.

Ducking into the dusty entryway of a squat building, Rory right on his heels, together they waited for several breathes before Greg staggered in. He sat bonelessly on the stone bench against the wall opposite them, struggling to regain his wind.

"'Hi Greg, lovely to see you, like to see Amy and Rory?'" he wheezed in a London impression of the Doctor. It wasn't half bad, the Doctor had to admit. "'They'd be delighted!'" Greg switched to his own voice. "Yeah, sounds great, Doctor.' 'Wonderful, by the way, they're on another planet and I'm going to technically kidnap you because you're already in my TARDIS and isn't this a fun surprise?' 'Oh, thanks for the notice, Doc.'"

The former DI had a truly impressive glare. The Doctor cracked a grin.

"Ah, well-"

Rory was the one to interrupt him, surprisingly. "And Amy is in it."

"Right, yes, didn't forget that," the Doctor said, a touch peevishly. It would be impossible to _forget_his mother-in-law; she was too loud and Scottish. "She'll be fine until we get her back."

"About that." Rory and the Doctor turned simultaneously. Greg waved a tired hand at his knees. "They're a bit worn down for this cardio workout."

"Oh," Rory murmured. "Yeah."

Knees? Is that all? The Doctor snorted. "Why hadn't you said anything?" Muttering to himself, he dove into the depths of his jacket pockets, burying his arms nearly up to the elbow in first one pocket and then the other. It took a bit of rooting before he came up with a triumphant cry and a small jar clutched in one hand. "Here we are." He plopped cheerily next to Greg, raising a puff of dust, and held out the jar.

Greg simply looked at him. Even Rory looked at him. His eyebrows started to travel upwards. "You open it like this," he demonstrated, speaking slowly. "And then you put it on ouchie joints and they're all better." They hadn't moved. "What?"

"Like Mary Poppins?" Greg said, and Rory nodded, without exchanging glances.

"Yeah. They're like that."

Greg chuckled, something about carpet bags and space alien pockets, and really, that didn't make sense in the slightest. Humans. He dug a large splodge of the stuff out and smeared it unceremoniously on Greg's left knee.

He started visibly. "Doctor!" The Doctor _hmm_ed at him, peering mildly up through his eyebrows, while he rubbed the glowing—mildly glowing—goo into Greg's trousers. "S'cold," he muttered.

"Big baby," the Doctor grinned, applying another liberal helping. Both Greg's knees were (mildly) glowing and quite damp when he leaned back with a pleased expression, capping the jar. "Now, up you get."

The older human only moved slightly but he practically vaulted upright. His brown eyes widened. "Uh. Nice." The master of understatement, dear Greg.

"Sort of a jelly that lubricates the joints and reinforces them," the Doctor said airily, tossing the jar in his hand. "Makes everything more buoyant." He was playing with the jar, absently picking at the worn label, when a phrase jumped out of him. He frowned. "Um."

Greg froze and the Doctor sort of wanted to applaud him; it took forever for companions to catch on to "oops maybe we shouldn't've" things and react appropriately.

"Um?"

"I might have-" A thunderous boom interrupted him and he ducked instinctively, Rory and Greg following suit. Judging by the scream of approaching semi-sentient clothes racks, they were found. "And time to go!" Jamming the jar back in his jacket pocket, he popped out of the alcove first, scanning the street. No racks were in sight, glinting through the dusty afternoon. Not yet. Rory was directly behind him and Greg...Greg?

A yelp, high overhead and distinctly English. Oh. Oh dear.

Hesitantly, the Doctor peeked up. Greg was descending through the air, a thoroughly astounded expression plastered over his face. He landed easily on his feet and before the Doctor could warn him about moving, he tried to step toward them. And he was off again, shooting up a good six meters with an indignant shout.

"Doctor." Rory, at his elbow, and as disapproving as he can get in the middle of a situation, which was surprisingly very disapproving and quite often.

"I may have put too much of it on," he hedged.

Greg came down and bounced right back up.

"You don't say." Rory was dryer than the entire planet.

The Doctor flashed him a broad grin. "Well, he's got a head start on us getting back to the TARDIS." He took off, running after the increasingly undignified cries of the retired policeman. Rory kept pace just to deal him one more disapproving father-in-lawly look.

The Doctor called loudly, "Just go with it, Greg, bend your knees! Head for the TARDIS!"

"Doctoooor!" He was pretty certain Greg was shaking his fist in his direction in mid-air.

It's been a brilliant day.


End file.
